Because you did, I too arrange flowers, br Watching the pistils just like insolent tongues br And the hard, red flesh of the petals br Widening beneath my eyes. They move like the hands br Of clocks, seeming not to move except br When I turn my gaze; then savagely br In the white room, they billow and spread br Until their redness engulfs me utterly. br br Mother, you are far away and claim br In mournful letters that I do not need you; br Yet here in this sunny room, your tulips br Devour me, sucking hungrily br My watery nourishment, filling my house br Like a presence, like an enemy. br br Geared to your intervals as the small hand br Of a clock repeats the larger, I, br Your too-faithful daughter, still drag behind you, br Turning in the same slow circles. br br Across the years and distances, my hands br Among these fierce, red blossoms repeat br Your gestures. I hope my daughter never writes: br 'Because you did, I too arrange flowers.